


Expectations

by micehell



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU-ish (not so much at the time written but now), Drama, Gen, childhood story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-02
Updated: 2005-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't want to hear what his mother was. He knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

The hall was like something out of one of those horror movies he wasn't supposed to have seen. Long gray rows of lockers stretching eerily down a seemingly endless passage, skeletal shadow fingers trailing across it from the occasional break of doors, but John walked it with his feet almost dragging. His monsters were more than likely outside, in plain sight, and he preferred the eerie hallway to what was waiting for him.

But the front door was growing closer, the yard in front of the school visible through the glass. John cautiously looked out, but there was nothing but the unending sameness that made up Elm Hollow. He relaxed; the dying grass, the thin trees throwing off their leaves - though not an elm in sight - didn't provide enough cover for anyone to hide behind. Maybe this place wouldn't be as bad as he thought it would.

The shove that knocked him into the door took him by surprise. That would teach him not to ignore the janitor's closet. He pushed back at the arms swinging at him, giving himself some breathing room, just out of reach of the five boys around him. The door was at his back, an escape if he needed it, but he'd have to face them eventually, and he supposed now was as good a time as any.

Stewart Long, short and broad, with the almost albino skin that sometimes went with red hair, stood in front of John, his arms crossed. His voice was as sulky as his face, an irritating whine as he said, "You think you're so smart, don't you? Well, you made my mother cry, you big show-off."

John had known it was a mistake the moment he'd done it. But Mrs. Long had been doing the same old math that he'd figured out years ago, and he'd been bored. Bored with her monotone voice, and the way she kept getting things wrong. Bored with his classmates who just sat there, glassily staring, either unaware or unconcerned that she *was* wrong.

He was pretty sure that the boredom wasn't really their fault, or at least not totally. He'd always been able to make friends before, years of living with his father teaching him how to at least fake it. But it seemed like too much effort now, too little reward, especially considering how unlikely it was that he'd be here for long. His mother had said things would be better now, but believing her wasn't really worth the effort either.

Not wanting to think about what was driving him, and not really caring, he threw tact to the wind, and not a little bit of caution. He smirked at the boys around him, and used his best I-don't-give-a-damn drawl, the one that always set his father's teeth on edge. "I just did my time in detention, even though I was right, I don't need any grief from you."

The shove that knocked him into the door wasn't a surprise at all this time. Nothing John could have said would have really stopped this. The incident with Mrs. Long was just an excuse; a bunch of children who'd lived their whole lives never even meeting a stranger, now faced with one who couldn't seem to fit in. The fight was as inevitable as it was short.

John wound up sitting on the floor, his right cheek stinging sharply, the taste of blood on his lips where the bottom one had split. The door pushed into his back as the other children disappeared like magic at the sight of his mother coming to see what was keeping him at school so long.

He rolled to the side, letting her in, and tried to smile past the pain in his mouth. She didn't return it, instead pulling him up, touching his cheek lightly, wiping the blood off his chin. She shook her head, part rueful amusement, part something that John couldn't identify. "I'm sorry; I really did think it would be better for you here."

Sadness. That was the other thing he'd seen in her, could hear in her voice. It tugged at him, past his defenses against her, and he wanted to tell her it was okay, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. She looked around, making sure they were alone, then finally smiled at him before she kissed his sore cheek and the split in his lip.

He felt the kiss trying to make its way through his defenses, too, so he pretended to hate it, wiping his face off as he frowned at her, but he still let her hold his hand tightly as they made their way out to the car.

::::::::::

One of the last books his mother had sent him had been _Great Expectations_. He'd actually liked it, though he'd never admit it, but he found himself wondering if she'd given it to him because she saw her own mother in Miss. Havisham. John knew he certainly did.

Not that his grandmother had been left at the altar. No, his grandfather had waited twenty years before he made good his escape. His mother had said it was divorce, though there'd never actually legally been one, but John had never been quite sure that his grandmother's steely-voiced 'your grandfather's gone' wasn't a euphemism for something else. The one corner down in the basement, where there'd been pipe damage at some point, certainly had the right _shape_.

"Sit up straight, Jonathan. There's no excuse for sloppy posture."

Frankly, he could sympathize with the man. He wished he could leave, too. "No, Grandmother." She glared and he tried to hide his sigh, their usual interaction. "I mean okay, Grandmother."

"Okay." Her voice was mild, but the derision was apparent in the set of her mouth. "Your language is as sloppy as your posture. I really fear for this country when your generation comes into power."

He just shrugged, knowing that would irritate her further, but too tired to really care. He looked at the doorway, but it was still empty. Over his grandmother's momentary silence he could hear faint traces of his mother's voice, breaks in the susurration as she listened to whoever was on the other side of the call.

"Why were you brawling at school like some kind of common ruffian?"

The rug became very fascinating to John. Very elegant, in cream and gold. Much cleaner than Miss Havisham's though.

"You will do me the courtesy of looking at me when I'm speaking to you, Jonathan. Now answer my question."

He looked at the doorway again, almost hoping that his mother was back, even knowing what it would mean. He shrugged again, mumbling, "I wasn't brawling. They were."

She shook her head, obviously irritated. "Speak clearly, please. And I suppose you did nothing to encourage these boys to attack you?"

Well, he had, but he wasn't stupid enough to admit to it. "Maybe it's just because I'm new. It's not like it matters now, anyway." He looked at the door again, but it was still empty.

His grandmother followed his gaze, turning back with eyes that were softer, sympathetic. He didn't want her pity, though, any more than he wanted to hear what his mother's excuse would be this time. But at least it meant that he wouldn't have to put up with boring Mrs. Long and her boring son anymore.

There was another awkward silence while they both just stared at an empty doorway, waiting.

"Your mother is..."

John didn't want to hear what his mother was. He knew. She was the person who'd left him with his father, even knowing what he was like, and John wasn't sure he'd ever forgive her for that. When he was younger, he used to fantasize that his father had had some hold on her, that he'd forced her to leave John behind. But then some postcard or book would arrive from whatever exotic place she was visiting, free from the burdens of family, of a kid, and he'd know he was kidding himself.

The worst was when she came to visit. To stay. Always swearing that she wanted to be closer to him, to make up for things. It usually lasted a couple of weeks before he was back with his father, his mother smiling at them both as she explained that an emergency had come up that just demanded her attention, and that she'd be back as soon as it was over, and then they wouldn't hear from her for months.

His grandmother was still looking at him, trying to decide what to say. "Your mother means well."

And she had taken him back to her own childhood home this time. Had waited almost a full month before she'd taken one of the many calls that always followed her around. John could easily believe she _meant_ well.

He looked at the doorway again. His mother was standing in it, a bright smile on her face. Meaning well.

"Jonathan, I'd like to speak to your mother privately. Please give us a moment alone." It sounded harsh, but his grandmother's face still had the soft look on it, and John was still too tired to argue, so he went.

Sitting at the top of the stairs, he could hear their voices but not their words. A low murmur, angry. A higher tone, defensive. He didn't have to hear the words, though, to know what was being said.

The voices were getting louder. His mother and grandmother seemed to be genetically incapable of talking to each other without it becoming a shouting match, which was funny considering his mother could charm just about anyone else.

"Don't say it, Caroline. Just don't. I've heard it all before. Your father always promised to do better, too."

John never expected to feel sorry for his grandmother. He guessed that now they were even.

"I'm..."

The door opened, his grandmother composed and icy once again. She waved a hand behind her dismissively, cutting off whatever his mother had been going to say. "I'm going to start dinner, but I need some things from the store. The list is on the stand by the door. Buy everything that's on the list. Don't buy anything that isn't. Don't make any substitutions." She looked at the stairs, looked directly at John. "And take your son with you."

Definitely even.

His mother walked slowly out into the hall as her mother made her way to the kitchen. "I will do better this time. I will." Her voice was so soft that John could barely hear her, but he didn't suppose it really mattered anyway.

She picked up the list off the stand, studying it. She smiled at him as he came down the stairs. "Want to go to the store with me?"

"Are you going?"

"Yes, that's why I asked..." she trailed off, her face reddening. "Oh, that's not what you meant." She ran a hand over his hair, distracted as always by the cowlick, but she just shook her head. "No. We're staying here. Just like I promised."

When she looked at him like that, all pretty smiles and warm eyes, he wanted to believe all her promises. But he just shrugged. "Sure, I don't have anything better to do."

::::::::::

There was only the one strip mall in Elm Hollow, most of the spaces vacant, the parking lot usually like an asphalt wasteland, but this time when they got to the store, the parking lot was full. Faded canvas tents, thin wood stalls selling food of dubious origins, and a lone clown out front, so pathetic he wasn't even scary. There was a traveling van bearing the legend 'Codger and Bark's Pandemonium Shadow Show', which caused his mother to laugh. At his confused look, she just shook her head. "It's a joke based on a book, which I sent you on your eleventh birthday. It was classic, John, which you would know if you had bothered to read it."

"Did it have any planes in it?"

She shook her head in mock despair. "Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Come on, let's look around."

John turned to his left, to the tiny menagerie there; cages that were barely large enough to hold the three-legged dog in one of them, forget the cow and deer that were his neighbors. The last cage held what John would have thought was a stuffed mountain lion, fur worn thin with age and handling, if it weren't for the desultory swipes the cat took at the stick one child was poking him with. "Do we have to?"

His mother tilted her head, lips pursed in a parody of thought, and for a moment, John could see himself in her, her in him. Maybe his father was right and he really was like his mother. The thought scared him a little, and he was just as happy to abandon it when she laughed, tugging his arm, pulling him along in her wake. "Come on, John. Let's live a little. How many times do you get to risk your life eating corn dogs from a place like this?"

His grandmother's voice told him this was a waste of time. His father's whispered that John was too old for this. But his mother's voice was soft and happy as she pointed to the garish lights that lit the darkening autumn air, and the other voices faded under their glow.

"Okay," was all he said, but she squeezed his hand as if she understood what it meant.

She moved the hand to his shoulder as they walked, keeping him to her slow pace, making the most of what little sights there were. As they watched what was apparently a mime acting out a man having a psychotic moment, she moved the hand to his hair again, drawn irresistibly by his cowlick, but it defeated her like usual. She was distracted before she could try to tame it with spit, for which he was thankful. "Hey, there're game booths. Let's go see what we can win."

They put down a dollar at the shooting booth, both of them laughing like little kids as they shot at the cardboard ducks that went twirling by. John missed pretty much every one, but his mother was a whiz, sending the ducks into mad spins. When the bell rang, ending the game, the barker grudgingly told her she'd won a prize.

She raised her hands in victory. "I am a goddess."

John laughed, causing her to turn a fake glare on him. "Mock not the goddess or I won't let you choose the prize."

Looking at the very bare assortment of prizes offered, John said, "That's not much of a threat."

But she ignored him, still high on her win. "How about the bear; it's cute."

The bear was small and a shade of blue not found in nature, but it wasn't any worse than the rest of the supposed prizes, and though it was another thing he would never admit, John kind of liked it. It had obviously been there for a while, covered in a film of dust from countless parking lots, the slight smell of grease, corn dogs and cotton candy caught in its thin synthetic fur, but the fur was warm as she handed it to him, a concrete memory.

He held the bear in his arm as they wandered around looking at the limited attractions, not even minding when he saw Stewart and his friends off in the distance, pointing at him and laughing. His mother saw them too, but she didn't say anything, for which he was grateful.

They got to the end fairly quickly, there not being a lot of carnival to get through, and John figured they'd get their groceries now and go home, but his mother said, "Let's go on the rides."

There were three of them, only two of which were working, the tiny little bumper car arena with its four dilapidated cars cordoned off from prying fingers. The two working rides didn't look to be in much better shape. "I don't think that's a good idea."

She just grabbed his hand and pulled him along. "Come on. Think of it as a lesson in philosophy. This place is like a living example of existentialism: pointless and bizarre. Now which one do you want to go on first?"

He looked at the merry-go-round, with its once-fanciful characters chipping away to nothing as they spun around in a perpetual race. "Okay, not that."

His mother studied it, head tilted to the side, bottom lipped pushed out in thought. "Hmm, maybe it's more like nihilism, with a little mix of nothingness of being thrown in. But come on, it'll be fun."

She rode a unicorn that had once been green and gold, but was now more gray and pale yellow, with dark spots where the paint was stained or gone. But she held on like it was truly magic, teasing John about his choice of a winged horse. "I'm really considering getting you some therapy for this flying obsession. What would Freud have to say about it?"

"Not much, considering he's dead. At least I guess he is, or else he's really, really old." John made sure she didn't see, but he petted the wings a little, uselessly encouraging them to greater speed, and only stopped when the merry-go-round shuddered to an abrupt halt, the music cutting off in an awkward squawk.

The guy manning the ride took his time coming over, looking at an electrical box rigged up on the side for approximately three seconds before he came over to them. "Sorry, ride's down. I can get you a free ride on the Ferris wheel to make up for it."

They stood in front of the Ferris wheel, watching as the cars creaked and groaned their way by. John looked over at his mother, wondering how much of a death wish she really had.

"Wow, that's sure... unsafe looking."

John breathed a sigh of relief, which cut off as she continued, "But we've already done existentialism and nihilism, why not add fatalism to the mix and have ourselves a field day."

Without really knowing how, John found himself in a car, holding tightly to a bar that was sticky with carnival fare and childish fear. But it wasn't his fear.

The ride was lame, really, making its unsteady way around its path, but it didn't matter, because it was off the ground. It wasn't quite flying, but it was better than being down below, where Stewart and the others were taking their turn at poking the mountain lion, the three-legged dog eyeing them warily. It was away from Elm Hollow, which looked almost beautiful from the height, the flat landscape taking on an alien appearance in the growing darkness, shadowed and mysterious. It was away from phone calls and mysterious emergencies, and places he'd never call home.

They were, of course, at the top of the ride when it broke down, stranding them there. It was fate.

His mother looked down at the group of men who were working on the ride, the shouts coming up to them indicating there was more fighting than fixing going on, and sighed. "Well, looks like we're here for a while."

John just raised one eyebrow at her, which she hated because she couldn't do it herself.

"Your grandmother's going to be mad."

That lowered the eyebrow, and John wound up sighing himself. "Yeah." Just what he needed, another fight today. At least his grandmother didn't hit. Throw things, yes, hit, no.

His mother pulled him close, sharing her body heat as night fell, and laughed. "Well worth it."

John leaned into her, the bear between them as he watched the stars grow, their light fighting against the sodium glare around them, and let himself believe that she really meant it.

/story


End file.
